I met a really odd person yesterday in a really odd way.
I also learned a really cool phrase.
I’ll start with the person. I met this lady in a supermarket. I was drunk. Let’s step back.
So two friends from high school and I met up at a pizza place to start drinking. We did it because beers are only a dollar there, which is a ridiculously low price and really just a dumb thing to offer to a guy like me. It’s like offering a fat kid all-he-can-eat candy. You know he won’t hold back at all, and in the end, he’s gonna wake up the next day feeling terrible.
But I digress.
We got there and ordered Miller High Lives [sp?], because we’re classy guys and when we’re not drinking champagne, we can at least drink The Champagne of Beers. After we downed, ‘em though, we were rebutted on our second round – and told all we could buy were PBRs.
“What’s the deal?” I asked the lady at the counter. “I can see Miller High Life at the bottom of the fridge!”
“Yeah,” she said. “We have ‘em. But we’re not selling them until we get rid of all the PBRs. Sorry.”
”Well,” I said, “how many PBRs do you have left?”
“About a case and a half.”
Because I am me, I immediately took this as a challenge.
Fast forward three hours. I’m still there in the pizza place with my two dumbass friends, and we’re ringed by empty cans. The floor is wet because I’ve been shotgunning – yeah, I bite holes in cans while in the middle of a pizza place, what of it? – and we’re absolutely blotto. But there’s only six PBRs left, we learn, so we race through two more apiece and celebrate our drinking success with – what else? – more drinking.
Those two High Lifes we had at the end of the binge were so damn sweet. We earned ‘em.
Anyway, after finishing, one of the guys told us about a bar he knows uptown that has barbeque grills in the back. They don’t have a kitchen, but they do have a pair of charcoal burners that they’ll let you fire up until eleven P.M. and cook up whatever you like.
So on our way to the bar, we stopped at a Gristedes, and there I met – and offered to help carry bags for – a crazy-lookin’, vaguely stripper-lookin’, dyed-blond urban vagabond. Whom, as it turns out, is a hooker, but a hypnotherapist with a big, pretty place on 3rd Avenue to boot.
Who knew? Life in New York is crazy.
Oh, and the phrase?
Turgid horse penis.